Draft 2

Month 3: The Dead Zone Continued

Helen stared at the glowing text on the datapad: Mitchell, H.–Terminated at Tartarus Checkpoint.

She had downloaded the decrypted logs from the primary terminal and retreated to the worn vinyl couch tucked into the far corner of the engineering workshop. The datapad rested on her knees. A thin, thermal blanket was pulled across her lap.

John did not just want a divorce or to run away with Ingrid and the hazard payout. He planned to leave her dead on a frontier world.

“We’re sleeping in Engineering from now on, Seven. I’m not going back to the captain’s quarters. Not to him.”

“I must point out that the structural integrity of that couch is severely compromised,” Seven said softly. He rested on a magnetic charging dock on the small side table next to her. “The exposed springs will cause significant spinal misalignment. Furthermore, the ambient temperature in this sector is highly unfavorable for human rest.”

“I don’t care about my spine.” Helen pulled the blanket around her shoulders despite the heat. “I care about surviving the next three months.”

“Madam, I have cross-referenced the encryption key used to alter these navigational files. It shares an identical code structure with the firewall currently locking the medical bay. I conclude that—”

Before he could finish, a shrill pop sounded from the drone’s casing. Seven’s blue optic died. The processing strain of bypassing the master terminal with a misaligned logic board finally fried his remaining circuits. His legs gave out, and he collapsed against the charging dock, completely lifeless.

Helen couldn’t believe it. There was no one on the ship to help her. Panic threatened to choke her. She reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out the bottle Janet had given her. She dry-swallowed one of the synthetic sedatives, closing her eyes as she waited for the chemical to dull her anxiety.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, throwing off the blanket. She stood up from the couch and carried Seven’s lifeless body over to her workbench. If she was going to survive this, she needed Seven.

She pried open Seven’s chassis. The micro-matrix board was split straight down the middle from the force of Magnus’s strike. She grabbed a pair of tweezers, carefully extracting the ruined silicon, and pulled a salvaged replacement matrix from her spare parts bin.

She applied the conductive adhesive, set the new board into the slot, and reached for her micro-soldering iron. She fused the connections, sealing the delicate wiring back together, and snapped the dented outer shell into place.

Helen pressed the manual ignition switch on his underbelly. For a few agonizing seconds, nothing happened. Then, the blue optic pulsed.

Seven lifted off the workbench. “System initialization.” He turned to face Helen. “Madam. Memory core . . . sector four is unresponsive. I am experiencing significant data fragmentation.”

“It’s okay, Seven. You took a hard hit. Just stay close to me.”

“I cannot locate the last forty-two minutes of my operational logs. My recent cache was corrupted during the system failure. Did I successfully decrypt the Captain’s terminal?”

“Yes, you did great. You found out the truth for me. John and Ingrid are stealing the hazard pay. They forged the navigational logs.”

Seven hovered closer, his optic adjusting as he processed her tone. “I detect acute distress in your vocal patterns. Statistically, marital betrayal ranks among the top three trauma triggers for humans. Would you like me to simulate the sound of ocean waves to calm your nervous system?”

“Ocean waves won’t help me, Seven.” Helen began pacing the room. “Claude is hiding something dangerous in Cargo Bay Four, and it’s leaking that biological toxin into the ship’s air supply. He locked me out so we’d all lose our minds. John is compromised and plotting to kill me. I cannot just hide in this room and wait to dock at Tartarus.”

“What is your proposed course of action?”

“I need to force my way back into that bio-dome,” Helen said. “I need to physically disconnect whatever Kinskey plugged into my grid. But I cannot face him alone. He is completely arrogant, and he might be armed. I should go get Magnus.”

Seven’s optic flashed a warning red. “Madam, I must strongly advise against enlisting Mr. Cantarini.”

“He hates the science officer as much as I do. He’ll help me.”

“He is currently confined to his quarters by direct order of the captain,” Seven said. “More importantly, my atmospheric sensors previously confirmed that the botanical particulate originating from Cargo Bay Four acts as a severe neuro-stimulant. Mr. Cantarini is heavily infected. He lacks impulse control.”

Helen stopped pacing. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Perhaps not intentionally. But if you release him, the probability of him violently assaulting Science Officer Kinskey is ninety-four percent. If he murders Claude, Captain Mitchell will have the legal justification to execute both of you for mutiny. Mr. Cantarini is a liability, not an asset.”

Helen exhaled a heavy breath. Seven was right. Magnus was a powder keg. If she let him out, the entire situation could devolve into a bloodbath. “Okay. Fine. It’s just you and me then.”

A blaring siren sounded. The primary engineering console flashed a stark, warning red. At the exact same moment, the rhythmic hum of the slip-drive groaned, shifting into a deep grind.

“Seven, run a grid diagnostic right now.” Helen ran to the terminal.

The drone extended a leg and slotted it into the interface port. “Analyzing. The unauthorized electrical draw from Cargo Bay Four has spiked beyond the secondary grid’s maximum threshold. Science Officer Kinskey’s equipment is pulling raw amperage directly from the primary drive.”

“Shut it down! Reroute the power back to the engines!”

“I cannot, Madam. The firewall Claude installed is actively leeching the energy. It is starving the ship’s primary defense systems.”

The deck plates vibrated violently beneath Helen’s boots. A terrifying, metallic shriek echoed through the lower decks, sounding like the hull itself was screaming.

“Deliver the metrics, Seven. What is failing?”

“The Persephone’s Structural Integrity Field is dropping rapidly. The magnetic dampeners currently sit at forty-one percent capacity. We are losing the protective envelope.”

A chill ran down Helen’s spine. The SIF was the only thing standing between the crew and the gravitational shear of faster-than-light travel. Without the dampeners pushing outward against the slip-stream, the sheer pressure of deep space would compress the freighter like a crushed tin can.

“Hull sensors are detecting stress anomalies,” Seven continued, his eye flashing frantically. “Micro-fractures are forming along the lower deck bulkheads. If the power siphon continues at this rate, total structural collapse will occur in less than two hours.”

“Can we route a distress signal through the emergency buoys?”

“Negative, Madam. We are in the center of the Dead Zone. Distance and solar radiation render the comms arrays useless. A signal would not reach Earth or Charon Outpost for months. We are entirely cut off.”

Helen was no longer just dealing with a toxin and a smuggled piece of cargo. Claude’s unseen contraband was eating the ship alive, and no one was coming to save them.

If she didn’t cut the power to Cargo Bay Four, they would never make it to Tartarus Colony, and the Persephone would implode, burying them all in the dark.

Helen sees she is to be terminated.